Scribble

How do I escape from the labyrinth of my sufferings, when my heart cries out loud but my eyes remain dry? My soul screams, in the silence of emptiness, holding it all inside.  surviving in the quiet. The walls of my maze are painted with regrets, failures, and the slow burn of agony. A silent opera of ache. I tried to let myself be. I tried to breathe with my suffering, to let my heart speak not to the world, but only to me. And still I wander. I spoke to the shadows, called them by name, Fear, Loss,Pain.  The hollow whisper of “what if?” I lit candles in corners, I let none to enter, watched them flicker, then vanish. Some nights, I curl up beside my sorrow, treat it like an old friend, with tired eyes and trembling hands. They say time heals but time only teaches how to wear your wounds And yet,a part of me still hopes. That one day,a crack in the wall will let the light in, not in a blaze, but a whisper, Maybe then,the silence will  hum a different tune, sigh, Maybe th...

Halfway between departure  and whatever waits ahead  there is a strange comfort of  not belonging to the stillness  that lives in between, My echoes of my own footsteps  reminds me to keep moving  i ask no questions here,  even the windows reflect nothing  but the language of uncertainty  meanwhile time passes in the chaos  not loud just relentless like raindrops  The air hums the presence of others  Rushing towards what comes ahead I move too, not with purpose just for the cause of simply existing

Maybe this is the peace I’ve always sought,  Then maybe, just maybe, it has been waiting for me all along by the tree, in the rippling water,  In the stillness of a moment that asks for nothing but your presence,Banalata.  Banalata left me with a moment’s peace, And I sat beneath the tree by shore, With the peace she left in me.But what if peace is nothing but an illusion? A brief truce in an indifferent world, A moment stolen from the absurdity of it all. The water rippled, indifferent to my presence. The tree stood there silent, The city behind me moved forward, blind and relentless,reckless.  As if I had never existed, And I would not be missed when I leave Perhaps this was the truth  There was no greater meaning, no purpose, Only the choice to sit, to watch, to exist,  And if I could accept that, Perhaps that was peace enough. Maybe I might sit beneath the hallow tree forever, That time itself might forget me, That the world, in its relentless forward m...

Her smile lights up my carved wounds.  A defiant radiance piercing the sullen sky of existence, daring the world to be less bleak. It startles like a memory of summer in a city bound by frost.  Her heart is the capricious monsoon,  Shifting from tender drizzle to relentless storm A restless sky, mostly cloudy, Heavy with unspoken storms. Her hair descends like a celestial accident,  It cascades down her shoulders like  A forgotten poem unraveling in the wind.  Her hair falls like something torn from the heavens, A rift in the sky where midnight escapes. It tumbles in dark waves, untamed and fierce, Her eyes are cosmic abysses—twin infinities where the stars drown willingly,   Where no astronomer could fathom.  Constellations shimmer, fragile and fleeting,  In their depths where light surrenders. Her face is an unfinished masterpiece,  Each line drawn with tender precision. The canvas seems alive, as each brushstroke of sorrow and gl...

Harun lit another cigarette. The smoke spiraled upward, a fragile thread connecting him to the sky—only to dissipate into nothingness. He watched it vanish, as though it were a metaphor he'd grown too weary to decipher. Beside him, the fish lay in cold resignation on their trays, their eyes wide and unblinking, reflecting a world they no longer inhabited. Jamal sat on the wooden stool, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his mustard-yellow shirt. His eyes were hollow but defiant. They stared  past the thinning crowds of the market.  "Another day gone," Jamal muttered. His voice was barely audible, lost amidst the life moving indifferently around them. Harun exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "Time does that, doesn’t it? Slips away, like fish through torn nets." The words were hollow and tasteless. He leaned against the cold corrugated metal, feeling its rust press into his back a quiet, gnawing decay. It was fitting, he thought. Everything corroded in time: metal...

Her eyes were not merely eyes—they were abysses They pierced my aching soul , Into which I fell.  They looked at me, yet did not see me;  They consumed me, yet offered nothing in return but the echo of my own desperation. To love her eyes was to grasp at shadows, to reach for the unattainable.  Their beauty was a torment, An accusation I could neither refute nor accept. In their depths, I found my longing, my love, My suffering, my own reflection distorted . And yet, I could not look away. They held me captive . I love her eyes as a moth loves the flame, knowing it would perish, yet drawn toward its own destruction. Her eyes are the kind of beauty that mocked the observer. They were not warm, nor welcoming; they were distant, like a landscape glimpsed afar.  I stared into them not because I wanted to,  because I had to.  Every glance was a trial, every flicker handed down without explanation.  There was no love in them, not really, only a cruel illusio...